


A Wolf In Chains

by AnneTaylor



Series: Witcher Mountain [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscommunication, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:59:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22596676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneTaylor/pseuds/AnneTaylor
Summary: This is an AU. While at the slave auction, hoping to purchase a strong field hand to operate his estate's harvester, Lord Jaskier witnesses the aborted sale of a white haired man with eyes that people call "devil eyes". When he finds out the man's probable fate, he realizes that he cannot allow that to happen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Mountain [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643239
Comments: 90
Kudos: 349





	1. One Day At The Slave Auction

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure if I should put any warnings on this. Though no graphic violence occurs, there is the threat of it. Slaves are often not treated well.
> 
> I'm already working on another series, which will take precedence, but this story got stuck in my head and demanded to be let out. It will eventually become a series, but I'll try to get this first story finished fairly quickly.

The Ithaca slave market was in full progression by the time Lord Jaskier Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, pulled up before the gate. He had intended to arrive far earlier to give himself time to inspect the men's pen for prospective field-hands, but his horse had turned up lame and a servant had to be sent for the carriage.

If he hadn't been so badly in need of a man to fill Latham’s duties, he'd have been content to wait the month till the next auction. But Latham had succumbed to an intestinal infestation of trillfar worms, caused by contaminated meat. He'd had the magistrates after the merchant who had sold him the worm-infested meat, but it had been far too late to save his man.

Acres of hay were in danger; the seasonal rain clouds were beginning to gather in the East. The two field hands he had trained to use the mechanical harvesting machine were not as strong as Latham; the man had been magnificent.

There was a man on the block, definitely not field-hand material. He was blond and slightly built. Jaskier cursed; usually the stronger men were brought out first. He had missed his chance.

The man, who apparently could read and write and spoke two languages, was sold to a merchant. Jaskier leaned against the tent support, pulling his shirt open against the hot wind that blew over the assembled bidders.

I might as well not waste more time. The chances that I'll find a man who can replace Latham...

And then the next man was dragged up onto the stage, and Jaskier caught his breath with shock. The man was tall and hugely muscled, his body crisscrossed with so many scars that his skin color was in question. Long white hair hung in greasy, tangled strands over the man's face and down his shoulders.

His chin had a distinct cleft and his cheek bones were strongly planed. There was only one tribe that Jaskier knew of with that particular set of racial characteristics. They called themselves witchers and lived in isolation, deep in the Hellspeak Mountains.

You scarcely ever heard of one coming down out of the mountains, and as far as one being sold at auction...

The man's arms were stretched out, fastened tightly to a long crossbar set into a harness on the witcher's shoulders. A blindfold had been tied tightly across the man's eyes. One foot was twisted, as if the bones had been broken and allowed to set badly.

 _He must be a runner_ , Jaskier thought. Slaves who tried to escape were often crippled by being hamstrung or having their feet permanently damaged. It would bring his price down but made him useless for Jaskier's purpose. A crippled man could not operate a harvesting machine. At least, not easily.

Jaskier spared the moment of hatred for whoever had crippled this magnificent man. What stories his scars would have told; as a doctor, Jaskier would have been more qualified than most to read them.

The man staggered and almost fell. The auctioneer’s assistant, an ugly giant of a man, hauled the witcher back upright.

 _They've probably been starving him to make him look more docile. There's no way they can hide that limp though. And why would they blindfold him?_ The most obvious reason would be that the man was blind. Another regretful injury. Jaskier wished he could get a look at the witcher's eyes to see if they could be saved. Blindness caused by injury or disease was often at least improvable.

There was something implacable in the man's expression. He was focusing on something, probably his hatred for the men selling him. Jaskier didn't blame them for keeping him restrained, the man was a bit frightening. Even when they ripped off his single item of clothing, a breech-clout, to show that he was intact, the man's expression didn't change. The auctioneer handled his genitals, pointing out the unusually large cock, good for giving pleasure and large balls, good for breeding. Once, he squeezed them, making the man’s body twitch.

“Hey!” A boy yelled from the audience. “What about his eyes?”

“He has a condition called Ticophoma that makes his eyes sensitive to the light,” the auctioneer explained. “We have to keep them protected.”

 _Lying bastard_. Selling a blind man to anyone would be bad for both slave and buyer. Jaskier raised his voice. “You’re lying. Ticophoma would make the man more sensitive to light than his eyes. His skin would be burned. Is he blind?”

There were mutters all around him. One woman with a bucket of over-ripe apples threw one of them at the stage. It hit the corner and splattered across the dusty ground.

The auctioneer began his sing-song pitch. He started high and got no bids. He pleaded his merchandise’s assets; the powerful muscles, can go all day on a single piece of beef and a flagon of ale, lovely hair, good balls and cock. He went much lower, and the bids began to trickle in.

The witcher neither struggled nor gave any sign that he knew he was being sold.

Drugged. It was a mercy, in some ways. _But the man will not show to an advantage_. He'd be bid upon by those with less need. Less need meant less value, and less value translated to poor treatment.

 _I cannot afford to waste my money on a man who cannot take Latham’s place. All that hay, lost. And what would I do with a crippled soldier?_ He probably knew nothing but the sword.

_I know nothing of the sword. Perhaps he could teach me. Or my sons, someday._

The boy from the audience darted out and leaped up on the stage. Immediately his mother began screeching at him, and the father to shout at the mother. The boy ducked past the grasping hands of the auctioneer’s assistance and flung himself at the witcher, climbing up over him to snatch the cloth from his eyes.

He dropped to the ground with a sneering, defiant air. “I wanted to see his eyes. I heard he has devil eyes.”

The crowd gasped. The witcher's eyes were a bright, unnatural yellow. The pupil of the eye was so small as to barely be noticed, making the eye seem even more inhuman.

 _Drug reaction_ , Jaskier observed.

“It's a demon!” one man yelled.

“Get it away from me!”

“I retract my bid.”

“And I as well.”

A clod of grass flew through the air and struck the witcher on the chest. He seemed not to notice.

The auctioneer started wind-milling his arms “My good people, there is nothing to fear. He has been rendered harmless...”

 _Wrong tactic_ , Jaskier thought. His line ought to be “there's nothing to fear, he's not a demon.” He's just a man with odd colored eyes.

Then a rock arced through the air and struck the witcher's face. His head snapped backward, his crippled foot was forced to shift and he went down.

It wasn't until the barrage begin to strike the auctioneer that the auction was called off. The witcher was dragged back into the slaves’ tent and Melonium Justice, the merchant who financed and owned the Ithaca auction, stepped forward to try and avert the potential riot situation.

Jaskier looked over his shoulder. His coachman, Bingham, was waiting with his carriage. The likelihood that the auction would even be allowed to continue was low. Still, he needed a man to replace Latham. Jaskier headed for the slave tent. He could always make a private deal if he saw something he liked.

The men's section at the pens was quite different from the women’s. The women were all kept in a common area, with the idea that they could keep each other from hysterics. Private areas were for private sales, and money always changed hands when a woman was taken off to one of those.

It was a vicious, distasteful way treat human beings. Sales of slaves in his hometown were done with more discretion and less cruelty. Just because they were criminals and property did not make them any less human beings.

In the men's section, there were a great number of private boxes and they were more heavily reinforced. Men tended to be aggressive and violent, only those who showed no signs of aggression were allowed to be in the common area, which was cleaner and more comfortable.

The Witcher was not in the common area.

Jaskier found him just as they were restraining him in his box. The drug was wearing off, or maybe the witcher was just very strong. It took five men to secure him. Leg irons and wrist irons pulling his limbs to their limits to prevent him from getting leverage. When the last manacle was strapped in place, the witcher ceased to struggle. His pupils were no longer shrunk down to pinpricks, but his eyes still refused to focus.

“Fucking animal.” One of the men balled up his fist and struck him below the rib cage. The witcher folded over to the extent that the chains would allow it, but did not fall.

 _Fucking coward. You wouldn't have done that if the slave had had his hands free_. “Where's the auctioneer?”

“Don't worry about any bids you made on this one.” One of the men waved a hand. “Dog-meat Drappel is buying him.”

Dog-meat Drappel was an unsavory character who ran a dog pit in the center of town. They forced dogs to fight each other and sometimes other animals as well. He was known to buy puppies in bulk, and he kept all his bitches for breeding. The attrition rate of his games was quite high. But he made a lot of money and he could afford to keep them replaced.

Jaskier wondered how many dogs Dog-Meat was planning on shoving into the arena opposite the witcher. He would make a fortune, on the percentage that he took from wagers, if nothing else. It would be illegal, or perhaps not. A slave did not have the same legal protections that a freeman did, and the law did not specify, saying only that “only animals might be made to fight.”

I might as well stop pretending I'm going to let the witcher be sold to anyone but me, Jaskier thought with a sigh. He didn't need an extra mouth to feed, but the estate was doing well and there was no shortage on his accounts with Corbin and Sons, Money-lenders. It would be a shame about the hay, but at least the grain had been stored safely in the barn last month. He could just plow the ruined hay back into the soil and it would be the richer for the next year.

“I'm not here to get my money back,” he told the man. “I hadn't yet placed my bid. Please fetch the auctioneer for me.”

The man eyed him. He been in the field helping operate the harvester this morning and he hadn't had time to change. And he wasn’t as well known among the lower classes as he was to the upper.

“Fetch him yourself,” sneered the man. “Or don't. He's already bought and paid for by Dog-Meat.”

Arguing with these riff-raff would be a waste of his time. Jaskier turned on his heel and went in search of the auctioneer. He found him in the courtyard that bordered the auction house, washing tomato stains from his tunic. One of the thrown fruits had found a target.

Lord Jaskier.” The man spoke with grudging respect. “How may I be of service to you?”

“The white-haired man with the odd eyes. I wish to purchase him.” Jaskier decided he was better off pretending ignorance of the man’s origins.

The auctioneer gaped at him. “Whatever for?” he blurted out.

“My man, Latham, has died. I need a very strong man to help with the harvester. The white-haired fellow looks to be quite strong.”

A conflicted look flowed over the auctioneer’s face. It was easy to read him.

_Lord Jaskier will pay me more than Dog-Meat could for the slave…_

_If Lord Jaskier isn't pleased with his purchase..._

Caution finally won the day. “I'm truly sorry, my Lord, but the man has already been sold.”

“To whom?” Better not to admit prior knowledge.

“To...Mister Drappel,” he admitted.

Jaskier let his bottled-up outrage emerge. “That sir, is entirely unacceptable. It is shameful enough that we allow man's bloodthirst to be quenched on animals. It is an unhealthy practice and if you allow it to be advanced to blood-sports using humans I will go directly to the mayor-elect and have all responsible parties cited and fined. Severely.”

In truth, he didn't give a crown for the moral quality of humanity, they would go to hell as they would, but it sounded better than I will not allow dumb animals to be killed for people's amusement. He had almost persuaded the mayor-elect to ban the Pits on the basis that watching savage acts made men savage.

He wasn't certain if he believed it or not but it didn't matter.

“My Lord... You put me in a difficult position.”

“No. Refusing my request would put you in a difficult position.”

“My Lord…” The auctioneers voice had taken on a distinct whine. “I have already taken and spent his money not an hour past.”

“How much?”

“Three hundred crowns, my Lord.”

Well, that made it official…there would be nothing left to purchase a field-hand today. There were fifty ten-crown marks in his belt pouch. He counted out twenty of them into the auctioneer’s hand. “I'll take the rest and return...D…Mr. Drappel’s money to him personally.” With bloody pleasure.

“Th...thank you, my lord.” The auctioneer performed a deep bow.

“When I return, I'll take my new field hand with me,” Jaskier said. “Have him prepared for travel.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Then more hesitantly “My Lord?”

“What is it?” Jaskier snapped. Am I being unfair to the man? Jaskier wondered. I find the practice of slavery abhorrent, but it is legal. The man is just doing his job.

Latham, and all his other field-hands purchased as slaves were now freemen. He wondered how long it would be before he could safely do the same for his latest purchase.

“The man was a soldier. He is...can be...aggressive. I fear he will not be well suited to the role which you plan to put him to. Maybe a guard?”

“I'm well aware that he is a soldier. The scars make that obvious. But I have found that many soldiers settle well into a life which does not require them to risk their lives for every engagement.”

“If you say so, Milord,” the auctioneer murmured.

Jaskier could practically hear the man's thought processes. He had warned Jaskier and now he could say it wasn't truly wasn't his fault when the man rose up and murdered everyone in their beds...

Jaskier found Dog-Meat on a deeply rutted dirt road next to the auction holding pen. He had a cart containing a cage about the height of a man's thighs. It would have been adequate for a dog, which could comfortably lie down in it. A man the witcher's height wouldn't have been able to sit upright.

He was fastening a set of manacles to the inside of the cage.

Jaskier tossed his coin purse into the cage. Dog-Meat jumped and whirled about.

“Three hundred crowns. The auctioneer sends his regards and returns your money to you.”

Dog-Meat spat on the ground. “I don't want the money. I want the fighter with the demon eyes.”

“If I ever become aware that you have added human beings to that vile sport upon which you make your living I will see you ruined,” Jaskier hissed. “I will see you jailed, your profits confiscated and if any humans die in your pit I will see you hanged for murder.”

The man's eyes popped open in alarm. “You can't do that. The penalty for a slave death is just a fine.”

“If I must, I will bring forth a witness who will swear that the man was falsely accused and therefore ineligible for enslavement. That will elevate his death to murder.”

 _God help me_ , Jaskier thought. Is this what I must become in order to address these injustices? Does the end justify the means?

Dog-Meat didn’t even look surprised that a lord would stoop to falsifying evidence. He snatched up the coins and counted them on the spot. “You're one short” he told Jaskier sullenly. It wasn't until Jaskier made him lay out the coins in piles of ten, and then made him turn out his filthy pockets, from which dropped a gold ten-crown and other items that made Jaskier ill to look upon, that the man agreed he had indeed been repaid.

Then Jaskier marched him back to the auction office to sign a paper to that effect. He didn't trust Dog-Meat not to recant at a later date.

Finally, all the papers had been signed and Jaskier found himself in possession of a white-haired, scarred ex-soldier with a limp, who was bound to be a handful once the drugs wore off.

 _I've always said life was better for a few challenges_ , he remarked to himself as he headed off to the slave pens to pick up his purchase.

When he got there, the pen which had contained the witcher was empty. There was a man with a broom and a mop and a bucket of water, cleaning the pen.

"Where's the slave that was in this pen?" he asked.

“Taken to be gentled, milord,” the man said indifferently.

“What!? I didn't ask for that!” Fuck! Gods, let me be in time to stop this. Auctioneer, you bastard, were you even going to inform me of what you had done?

Covering his ass. A gentled slave was thought to be less aggressive, and from auctioneer’s perspective, less likely to cause problems.

If he thought to have this done before I signed the papers there would have been nothing I could have done.

The first thing that hit him as he burst through the door was the smell of burnt flesh.

Fuck...no...


	2. Heading Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has momentarily lost track of his witcher, and must find him quickly. Is he too late to prevent disaster?

The source of the burnt flesh was two young boys huddled against the wall, curled over, sobbing in pain. A tall man stood beside them, his face stern and impassive. Jaskier recognized him as Urvine Malchek, the well-known choir director for the Malchek Boys’ Chorus, the most famous traveling choir in Kaedwen.

Eunuchs. Their youthful singing voices forever preserved. Poor little crickets. He wondered if the boys were slaves, or if their parents had simply given permission for the boys to be gelded so their incomes could continue to enrich the parents’ pockets.

 _Not fair. I have no right to judge._ The income might mean the difference between starvation or life for the entire family. Among those who had no guaranteed source of income, it was likely that one out of five children would die of starvation, malnutrition or disease before they became adults. Their parents might have thought this would be the boys’ best hope for a good life. And all it cost them is their chance to contribute to future generations.

His witcher had been chained by the wrists, suspended high enough that his heels left the ground. Still intact, thank the gods. His feet, already in permanent leg irons, were chained apart to give the gentler easy access.

They had chosen the crushing tool, rather than the cutting and cauterization. Loss of function without alteration of appearance. The witcher was awake. He was staring straight ahead, his face might have been carved of stone. Rivulets of sweat trickled down the man's face and chest. Whether it was because of the heat, or an awareness of what was about to be done to him, Jaskier could not tell.

“This man is my property. I have not given permission for him to be gentled.”

The gentler was a man with the arms of a blacksmith and short, bandy looking legs. “Paperwork is handled in the office.” He lifted the crushing tool and opened it with a squeal of metal.

The witcher's hands clenched.

“Let me make myself plain. He is not to be castrated.”

“Gentled. Not snipped. He won’t look any different.” The man took one of the witcher’s balls delicately in his hands, stretching it out a bit to expose the stem. The witcher's teeth showed in a feral snarl and his muscles strained. His eyes were desperate.

“I don't care what you call it, it's not to be done,” Jaskier snapped. “Put that down and get him out of those manacles.”

The gentler dropped the testicle and stepped back. He gave the witcher a wary look, then turned to Jaskier. “Let me see your papers.”

The slave's head fell forward, hair falling across his face, and his muscles shook with tremors.

Jaskier pulled out the sheet of papers that he had obtained in the slave masters office.

When the gentler was satisfied with the legitimacy of Jaskier's ownership and orders, he tossed the gentling tool on the floor with a clatter. “Stand back,” he told Jaskier.

With one powerful thrust of his fist, he doubled the witcher over his chains, then released the manacles and had the slave’s hands fastened behind his back before he could catch his breath.

“That wasn't necessary.”

“Standard procedure. Get yourself killed on your own time. I've got a wife and children to go home to at night.” He released the spreaders. “He's all yours. Do you need help loading?”

Jaskier stared helplessly at the man whose life he was now responsible for. He knew nothing about him. Would he come quietly? Or would he fight? “I...”

“Right,” said the gentler. He raised his voice. “Orrik. Simms. Help the man out.”

Between them, they guided the limping witcher to Jaskier’s carriage. They didn't handle him harshly, but neither did they evidence any compassion. He was just merchandise.

In the carriage, beneath the seat were a set of rings meant to hold leg irons. Simms snapped the witcher in, gave Jaskier a brusque nod and both men headed back to the auction.

"Take us home, Bingham,” Jaskier bid his driver. He climbed up into the carriage and shut the door, leaving himself alone in the creaking, vibrating box with the silent witcher.

Let's start with the basics. “What's your name?” he asked the slave.

For a time, the man gave no sign of having heard Jaskier's question. His eyes were focused on a spot on the floor. A dark stain of indeterminate origin. Probably blood. There was a faint tremor in the man's tense shoulders.

In shock, Jaskier realized. He's trying hard not to show it.

Beneath the seats were boxes filled with comforts for a long carriage journey. Jaskier removed a blanket and a waterskin. He draped the blanket over the man's shoulders and around the front, careful not to make any sudden moves. A soldier would have a startle response to sudden movement.

After a time, the man slumped forward and he began to take some note of his surroundings. His startling yellow eyes flicked back and forth, never lingering on any particular feature.

Avoiding me. Should I push? Jaskier uncorked the mouth of the water skin and extended it toward his slave. Once the witcher’s eyes focused on it, he tipped it up and placed it against the man's lips.

The man looked at him, his eyes trapped and hopeless. He turned his head aside.

Jasper was confused for a moment, then he understood. “It's not drugged,” he said gently. “Look.” He waited until he had the witcher's attention, then took the water skin and let water dribble into his mouth. He swallowed, then put it against the man's lips again.

The witcher took a cautious taste, rolling the liquid about in his mouth, then swallowed and he began to guzzle the water greedily, as if he was expecting any moment to have it yanked away.

Once the skin was empty, Jaskier set it aside. “You haven't yet told me your name.”

“Whatever Master wishes.” It was an automatic response for most slaves. They were often renamed by their masters, sometimes according to their function.

“I do not change my slaves’ names.”

“My last mistress called me dandelion. She said my hair reminded her of dandelion fluff.”

“So, is that the name you prefer?”

“I have no preferences, Master.” There was a bitterness inherent in the toneless reply. “I will eventually learn to answer to any name.”

“What was the name given to you at birth?”

The man's shoulders tensed. He was staring blankly at the stain on the floor again. “I don't remember, Master.”

Jaskier was good at reading people. From all the signs, that was a lie. “Were you enslaved as a child?”

“Yes. I was a child when I became a slave.”

His wording was interesting. Probably a young man who had done something foolish. What sort of thing would a foolish young man do that would end up with him as a slave? “You stole something?”

A startled look came into the man's eyes, then the witcher immediately dropped his gaze. “They told you.”

“No. Just a good guess. What did you steal?”

Hesitation. “A horse.”

Jaskier wish he knew something about the witcher people. Were they as much a culture in isolation as he expected? Perhaps horse stealing was some sort of test of manhood. “Whose horse?” Had he stolen it from a field, or confronted the horse’s rider? It made a difference in terms of the severity of the offense in Jaskier's eyes.

He's a soldier. They're used to taking what they want. Where did he get the scars? Many of them looked to be decades-old. Whose army did he get them in?

Then Jaskier took a closer look. _Those aren't sword scars. Not from any weapon that I recognize._ They looked more like claws and teeth.

Had he been a gladiator, forced to fight to the death in the capital city's arena against man and wild beasts? That didn't seem right either. Then he would have expected to see a mix of weapon cuts and claw marks.

His scars had all been delivered by some kind of animal. Parallel scratches, curved sets of teeth marks, chunks of flesh chewed out and healed. The pattern of wolf bites were fairly distinct, but where in the gods' names were such large wolves to be found?

Jaskier became aware that the witcher hadn't answered his question he repeated it. “Whose horse?”

A note of defiance flashed in the slave’s eyes, but he was careful not to engage Jaskier’s gaze. “Mine.”

“How could you be convicted of stealing your own horse?” Actually, Jaskier could think of several ways it could have happened. A young barbarian from the mountains would have had no way of proving ownership.

“Roach was hurt. An infected knee. I needed someone who could make a healing poultice. We agreed on a price. It was all I had. Then he told me I owed him more. He took my horse a payment. I took her back. I tried to, anyway. They were waiting for me. Eight of them.”

It had been a trap specifically meant to catch the witcher and make a slave of him. Exotics were always in demand. Legal? No, but who would have taken a witcher boy’s word?

It was hard to judge the man's age. Thirties? So he had been a slave for ten or twenty years, depending on which version of the story was correct. Long enough for the slave characteristics to have become part of his survival mechanism. He must have been far more dangerous when he was younger.

Beneath the leg irons, the witcher’s flesh was badly scarred. I am sorry, he wanted to tell the man. You did nothing that deserved enslavement. But he had learned that a master who apologized was thought to be weak and he couldn't afford that in the early stages of their relationship. Not with a dangerous man like this.

He needed to find a way to gain the witcher's trust. It wouldn't be easy and it wouldn't be quick. In a few years...it was his policy that if a man worked off the cost of his own purchase, Jasper would free him. When that happened the witcher would be free to return to his mountains. Five hundred crowns was a lot of money, though. Especially for a crippled man.

“We’ll be home soon. Tomorrow we'll spend some time together so I can figure out how you will best fit into the estate’s needs. I'm sure we can find something.”

“What do you need, master?” The witcher’s breathing had quickened, and become shallow. A fear response. Slaves didn’t deal well with uncertainty.

“Can you read?”

“No, master.”

He hadn’t expected otherwise.

“Do you have a…woman?” the witcher asked.

“No.” Jaskier had never felt the need to take a wife. His estate was small and it was his intention that, when he died, the estate would be sold and the money distributed to his employees and some local charities. A wife and children would have complicated that.

The witcher nodded. “I can provide services then. I've been told I'm quite adequate.” A flicker of masculine pride gave the man's lips a sensual softness. Jaskier could not take his eyes from them. He shook his head. He had a strict policy that way.

Unwilling. Never take unwilling service.

Was the witcher unwilling?

_A slave could not refuse, therefore he could not consent. All service is unwilling when taken from a slave._

The slave’s golden eyes bored into his. His pupils were large.

Not unwilling, but unable to refuse, none the less. I am not a rapist. The slave would try to use sex to gain favors and privileges. It was nothing to blame him for. Slaves’ bodies were owned, it was only their passions which could be used for coin. And just because the witcher showed the physical signs of arousal it didn’t mean consent. Those used as sexual slaves had to train themselves to respond, unwilling or not, to the advances of their masters.

“Geralt.”

“What?”

“My name. Geralt.”

“Geralt. You're a Witcher are you not?”

Stubborn lips. Then “Yes, sir.”

Survival mechanisms. It must have taken him some time to learn, and farther to bend. A man of greater pride or lesser intelligence wouldn't have survived.

“I know very little about your people. I'd like to know more.” Perhaps it would help develop bonds, to allow him to talk about his home.

The motion of the carriage ceased. _Ah_ , Jaskier thought, _home_. It was good to be home.

The witcher, Geralt, was strangely quiet. His body language had closed down again; hunched over, hands clenched behind his body, muscles tense. What was worrying him? “I think you'll like it here, Geralt.”

His words had no effect on the clenched man bent over on the carriage seat.

It was odd, but something he would have to deal with later. Jaskier opened the door of the carriage and unfolded himself out into the bright sunshine.


	3. To The Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has brought his slave home. He hopes that things will work out. But they seldom do.

“Welcome home, sir.” His valet, Timothy, bounded down the steps of Iris House, the Pankratz family manor. It was a two-story building with a three-quarter porch that made for delightful sunset viewing in the summer and fall.

The delicate perfume of iris filled the air. The bearded flowers were not strongly scented, but they existed in an amazing palette of colors. Their ruffled heads, with delicate tongues curling down, surrounded the house in a 10 foot bed all about. They had been Jaskier’s mother's pride and joy, and her life's work. South of the manor was a greenhouse that measured 200 feet and was also filled with irises.

Sales of the irises was one of the biggest sources of income for the estate. Another was Adrian's inventions. Adrian had been a slave who Jaskier purchased five years ago. His hands had been mangled by a mishap at the tinker’s shop where he repaired pots and pans and experimented with metal bits welded together. Unable to work with his damaged hands, he had lost his customers, his shop, and eventually his freedom when he was sold to meet his debts.

Browsing through the men's common room at the pens, Jaskier had been impressed by the young man's wry wit and quick mind. He paid three hundred crowns in a private sale and brought Adrian to Lily House.

His hands would never do fine tooling again, and Adrian's penmanship was still a bit shaky, but Jaskier had been able to repair most of the damage. Now Adrian lived in a room at Lilly House and maintained what he laughingly called his Shed of Wonders.

A couple of years ago he had invented a harvesting machine, which enabled three men to do the work of three dozen. One to pull and two to operate the levers. It was still a work-in-progress, Adrian always said. They had tried using a bull in place of the lead man, but the noise of the harvester had so terrified the animal that it injured itself and nearly gave Shane a concussion.

“Is Adrian in the shed?” Jaskier asked. He wondered if the witcher’s silence meant he was in pain of some sort. He wanted to get the manacles off him as quickly as possible.

“I believe so, sir.” Timothy, who had been Jaskier's valet for eight years, peered into the carriage. “My... He's a big one. Well done, sir. We should have the hay in by tomorrow at the latest.”

“He's got a crippled foot. The hay will have to be plowed, I'm afraid.”

Timothy's face fell. “I see. Well, you’ll soon set him to rights then, sir…”

“I'll do what I can.” Timothy's belief in Jaskier's ability to perform medical miracles was something in excess of reality. “Help me get him out, will you?”

Geralt's face was expressionless as Jaskier unsnapped his leg manacles from the rings under the seat, and they unfolded him from the carriage. He looked about.

 _I wonder if it still looks alien to him, even after all these years_. The mountain environment was harsh and cold and vertical in most places. The flat, verdant plains of Aedirn would seem like a soft paradise comparatively.

Of course, no place could be paradise when you were a slave. “Let's bring him to the shop. Clythe can strike the leg irons.”

That produced a visible reaction in the witcher, quickly suppressed. Jaskier wondered how long Geralt had been wearing the permanent leg irons, which had been welded shut and would have served to prevent the witcher from running or kicking if his injury had not already performed that same function.

Jaskier had the key to the hand irons, but he didn't want to release the man's hands until they reached the shop. Adrian had two assistants, one a blacksmith by trade, and the other his son and apprentice, both very large men. It was they who operated the levers on the harvester. They were steady, reliable men to have at your side when something went wrong.

The Shed of Wonders, as it had been christened, was a wooden structure a hundred feet by fifty, with large windows set up high to keep the air cooled. The windows had mechanisms to easily close them from the ground in inclement weather, another of Adrian's inventions and one which was much in demand.

Geralt was limping badly. The cramped, vibrating carriage ride must have exacerbated his injury. He clenched his teeth as they approached the shed, although Jaskier couldn't tell if it was in pain or unhappiness at having to be supported on both sides simply in order to walk.

A wave of heat washed out over them when the door was opened. In the warmth of the dying day, it was quite uncomfortable.

Inside, Clythe and his son Shane were hammering at the forge. Sweat dripped from their skin and the din was almost painful on Jaskier’s ears. It would do no good to try and get their attention; both inserted plugs of wax into their ears to protect their hearing, a practice that Jaskier insisted on. The blacksmiths would have scorned to do so on their own but were always willing to bend to Jaskier's requests.

Jaskier looked about for Adrian.

As usual, the man was at his work table. Jaskier left Geralt with Timothy and headed over to the work table. He tapped Adrian on the shoulder. Adrian popped the wax out of one ear. “Sir! You’re back.” A broad, shy smile lit up his face. He was a slight man, with hair so dark it was almost black, frosted over with silver. Premature for the most part; he was only twenty and three.

He looked over at Geralt and his eyes widened. “Is there something wrong with his eyes? They look damaged.”

“It's normal for his people,” Jaskier assured him. “I need to get his leg irons off.”

“I'll go get Clythe's attention.” Adrian rose and headed for the forge. Soon the noise ceased, much to Jaskier's relief. He was getting the beginnings of a headache, probably from noise as well as the sun and the heat. He'd always been sensitive.

The witcher, who had grown up in a Northern clime, must be suffering far worse. You couldn't have read it in his face, though. Geralt was standing on his own, his eyes taking in the interior of the shed, keenly cataloging everything. Besides the forge, there were several work tables, one of which contained a sheet of thinly hammered tin.

Adrian was experimenting with the idea of covering wooden shields with different thicknesses and shape combinations of thin sheets of metal to see how that changed the effectiveness of the shield.

That's something Geralt would be useful for, once his leg allowed him to move properly. Jaskier was impatient to get him into the house in order to examine his foot more closely.

“Bring him over!” Clythe shouted. He spoke with the over-loud voice of a man whose hearing was not what it should be.

Jaskier and Timothy supported Geralt as he shuffled painfully to the forge.

Shane's powerful muscles strained he lifted the anvil and carried it to a spot between Geralt's legs. He lifted the chain attaching the leg irons and laid it over the anvil. “Hold him steady.”

The witcher stared down at the chain, his face expressionless.

It took six blows of the hammer to shatter the chain links. The irons were constructed to be very difficult to remove. One of the links flew sideways, striking Geralt's crippled leg, but he barely winced.

“Set him up on the table,” instructed Clythe. “Striking the clasps without damaging the leg will be a bit trickier.”

Geralt allowed himself to be seated on the table. A slight trickle of blood dripped down into the dust.

“Now...put his leg up on the anvil.”

“Clythe, he can understand us,” Jaskier reproved him gently.

Clythe looked a bit startled. “Huh. I'd assumed he was fresh off the mountain.” He took a closer look at the slave’s back. Geralt tensed as the blacksmith walked behind him. “But I suppose not. His newest scars look to be man-made.”

“You know about witchers?” Jaskier was startled.

“Spent a little time in the mountains in my adventurous but mis-spent youth. One of them kept me from being eaten by some kind of flying thing with tentacles. Ugh. We travelled together for a time.”

“That's marvelous!” Jaskier grinned. “Can you speak their language?”

“Some.” Clythe said a few words to Geralt in a guttural sounding tongue.

Geralt's lips compressed. His body language grew tense. “I don't remember that anymore.”

Another obvious lie. He was protecting someone or something, Jaskier was certain of it. The witcher was beginning to look more like an onion than the turnip Jaskier had been expecting. It was his fault for assuming that just because someone was large it meant they were simple. “Never mind. Let's just get the irons off.”

Geralt placed first one leg, then the other, on the anvil, and Shane was able to crack the bindings on the leg manacles.

There was, as Jaskier had already noted, extensive scarring beneath the irons. It looked as if he'd been wearing them continuously for years. There were creams which could soften the scars and cause them to be absorbed to some extent; Jaskier could apply them when he did his examination.

“All right, good. Let's get the arms free and then we'll all have some supper.”

As he unlocked Geralt’s wrist manacles, he noticed Clive strolling toward the door. Must be hungry, he thought.

The manacles clicked open. Geralt's hands fell forward; he massaged them, with a pained look on his face. His shoulders rotated, stretching out.

“That's done. Shall we repair to the dining table and welcome our latest...”

The Witcher struck. Snatching Jaskier's short sword and dagger from their sheaths he began backing away. His limp was considerably less pronounced then it had been a moment ago.

With a ring of steel, Clythe drew his own weapon, a two-handed sword with an impressive reach. Shane drew his axe as well. Adrian watched, wide-eyed, and backed away quickly.

“Wait. Please. There's no need for this. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

“He's a slave drawing steel on a free man. And his master, at that. Penalty for that is death by torture.” Clythe’s expression was implacable.

“There's no need,” Jaskier repeated desperately. _What the hell was going on in the witcher's mind?_ “Just put down the weapons. I won't report you.”

Both Clythe and Shane were blocking the building's only exits. Jaskier edged toward them unhappily, not eager to be taken as a hostage if the witcher decided to try that route.

Geralt looked up. The windows were too far for him to reach. Perhaps if he had been in peak condition. Bitterness filled his eyes. His shoulders sagged. “You'll get nothing from me. You never have, and you never will.” He dropped the sword, reversed the dagger and plunged it into his own throat.


	4. Coming To Terms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has tried to kill himself, for reasons that become clear when incidents from the slave's past are revealed.

Blood spurted out in pulses.

 _Arterial. Fuck_. “Timothy! Get my kit! Hurry!” Jaskier raced across the room and threw himself down, heedless of the blood spatter. He compressed the man's throat, trying to slow the flow.

Geralt tried to throw him off but Clythe and Shane were suddenly on either side of him, Clythe capturing his arms over his head and Shane sitting on his legs.

The blood flow had been reduced but it was obvious that unless the wound could be repaired he would bleed out in a matter of minutes.

The door flew open and Timothy came pelting in, a large box in his hands. He set it down beside Jaskier.

“Excellent. Open it.”

The witcher's struggles were weakening. “Timothy. Take the cloth and soak it with a bit of ether. Hurry.”

Geralt tried to turn his head to evade the cloth but Timothy held it over his nose until the man's limbs went limp.

 _The artery has to be stitched_. Jaskier doused his hands and Timothy’s with carbolic. Then he carefully laid the witcher’s neck open. The man’s body gave an involuntary twitch and Timothy quickly replaced the ether-laden cloth. “Press here,” Jaskier told Timothy. He grabbed needle and thread and quickly took stitches in the artery. It wouldn't entirely seal off the blood flow but it would reduce it greatly. “All right. Release.”

Blood trickled around the stitches but it was far less than Jaskier would have expected. _I must have done a brilliant job with the stitches._

Taking stitches to close the outer neck wound was fairly routine. Jaskier sat back on his heels, feeling sticky and faint. “What the fuck just happened?” he muttered. He looked at Clythe.

“Your slave just tried to escape,” said Shane. “Seems pretty straightforward to me.”

“But why?” Jaskier asked. “Nobody was treating him badly. What did he expect to accomplish? He's a hundred miles from the mountains and he had to know he’d have been picked up quickly. Clythe?”

“It's just a guess, but I think it might have been my fault.” Clythe’s face was heavily lined with regret. “He saw my tattoos and assumed I was still an active member of the border patrol.”

“I didn't know you were border patrol”, Jaskier said in surprise. The border patrol was exactly what it sounded like; men who patrolled the borders of Aedirn, on the lookout for spies, enemies and dangerous animals.

Clythe shrugged. “Old history. Border patrol and the witchers have always been at war. It was one of the reasons I was so surprised when the witcher saved me. I got to know him, and it wasn't long after that that I left the patrol. Vesemir never asked it of me, but I... I couldn't see them as enemies after that.”

“I still don't understand.” Jaskier frowned.

“He probably thought I planned to interrogate him. Border patrol is always looking for information on witchers. See...here and here.” He pointed out marks on Geralt's hands and feet. “He's been tortured by the patrol. I know their techniques. They like concentrating on the feet. More sensitive, and a crippling injury to the feet makes them less likely to escape.”

“They did this?” Jaskier ran his hands over the scarred left foot. Many of the major bones had been broken and forced into unnatural positions as they healed. It was a common punishment for a slave who had tried to escape more than once.

“That would be my guess.”

“Just before we arrived, I was asking him about his people,” Jaskier remembered. “It made him go silent. I wondered but then... I didn't think anything more of it.”

“Just priming the pump,” said Clythe. “So you ask him about witchers and then I have a border patrol tattoo. Easy to figure out what went wrong in retrospect.”

“Let's get him into the house.” They lifted Geralt carefully and carried him into Iris House. Through the entryway with its vaulted ceiling, upstairs and to a room on the southside.

"You'll want to tie his hands and feet,” Clythe suggested bluntly, “with thick ropes. They're strong and they're well-trained. I don't know if he'd attack you, but he'll certainly try to rip open his stitches.”

“He was taken when he was a boy. Why does he still have such strong loyalty to his people?”

“As a boy? With that set of scarring? Not a chance. He was...” Clythe stared at the map of scarring on the witcher's body “…at least 40, maybe more, depending on how active a hunter he was.”

“Forty! He can't be that old.”

“Witchers live longer than we do. Much longer.”

“The scarring is at least twenty years old. That would make him…sixty? No...”

“They heal quickly. He might have been taken as recently as a few years ago. Depending on how long the border patrol spent breaking him before they sold him.”

“He's probably been wearing leg irons since he was taken, then.”

Clythe nodded. “They heal fast, but they scar as well as any of us. I'm guessing a little over five years ago from the look of It.”

“Would the border patrol have kept him that long?”

“No. A year at the most. Whatever they hadn't been able to get by that time wouldn't have been much.”

So, four years a slave. Or more. In leg irons. “I'd like to know more about witchers. I need to find out how not to trigger his violent or defensive side.”

Clythe looked uncomfortable. “Much of it was told to me in confidence.”

“I understand. Whatever you can give me would be appreciated.”

Clythe patted him affectionately. “You're a good lad, Jaskier. With a good heart. Of all the masters he could have come to, you are the best he could have hoped for.”

Clythe and his son had been on the block. Sold by order of the king. Clythe for treason and his son for attempting to help him escape. He never volunteered information about his offense and Jaskier had never pushed him. “That was your treason? Quitting the border patrol?”

“Fraternizing with the Enemy. I've refused to tell them much about my time with Vesemir. They had his name from me and little else. My commander was furious. He told me I should have gotten into their camp, should have mapped the trails. I was one of their own, torturing me would have been bad for morale, so they sold me as a slave instead. Not sure what that was supposed to have accomplished.”

“And here we are. Good fortune at the end?” Jaskier looked at Clythe questioningly.

“We're content here.” Like Adrian, the two men lived at Lily House and plied their trade independently, paying for room and board and providing any services that the estate needed.

Jaskier fastened the medical restraints on the witcher’s arms and legs, wondering if they would be enough. They were meant to restrain hysterical or delirious patients, not extremely strong and determined men.

“I can make something stronger,” Shane offered. He was clever with fine work. “I've got some fur to line the cuffs with.”

“Thank you. I’m hoping it won’t be necessary. He'll be too weak to break out for now. Let's take the opportunity for supper and when he wakes up...perhaps you can talk to him, Clythe.”

“I'll do what I can.”

Dinner was, as always, savory and varied. Iris House’s cook, Oriana, was a tall woman and big-boned, as she called it. Her crime had been murder. She'd stabbed to death the Lord who raped and murdered her daughter, knowing that he'd never be punished for the crime.

Of the act, she always repeated stubbornly “Don't regret it. Never will.” She was an amazing cook and the only murders she had committed since coming to Iris House had been of the barnyard animals slated for the table.

Tonight, dinner was baked chicken, stewed tomatoes and fresh baked bread. Jaskier laid in with enthusiasm. The tomatoes would be too messy, but chicken and bread could easily be fed to a restrained man, assuming he was up to swallowing with his ruined throat.

When they returned to the witcher's room, he appeared to still be unconscious, although Jaskier could see that he'd been testing the limits of his bonds. Several of his stitches had started bleeding again.

“We know you're awake,” he said bluntly “so you might as well open your eyes.”

The witcher's inhumanly yellow eyes opened. He was trying to keep his face impassive but the terror underneath was bleeding through. Jaskier could understand why. He'd once been asked to attend the public death of a slave for the crime of attacking and wounding his master. Jaskier had been forced to leave after the first ten minutes. He begged to be allowed to give the slave an injection to speed his death and been denied. He'd offered, oh, he couldn't even remember what he offered to do in order to get close enough to the man to break his neck. But the kings-men responsible for carrying out the execution had predicted his intent and ejected him. Later Jaskier had heard that the slave had lived for hours.

The news had sent him off behind the house to vomit.

Clythe stood to one side, leaning against the wall. His expression was thoughtful, but it was obvious that nuances of expression weren’t something Geralt was able to detect in this situation. His gaze kept straying to the intricately tattooed patterns that curled around Clythe’s throat and disappeared into the “V” of his thin wrapped vest. Geralt’s crippled foot drew tight against its restraint.

“We’re not here to interrogate you,” Jaskier told him.

“Just waiting, then, for the kings-men to arrive?” Geralt’s voice was hoarse. His breath came in shallow gasps, as if he couldn’t get enough air. His arms strained at their bonds. One of the stitches popped.

“I haven’t called them, and I have no intention of doing so.” Jaskier frowned. “Calm down and listen to me. I was only interested in your people because I'm interested in everything. And Clythe is no longer with the border patrol. In fact, he was sold as a slave for your people’s sake. He refused to give up the information that his friend Vesemir had shared with him.”

Recognition leaped in Geralt's eyes.

“Clythe…I think he knows your friend.”

The witcher watched the blacksmith warily as he approached. Clythe pulled up a chair, and the two of them began conversing in that guttural tongue. Jaskier caught the name Vesemir mentioned several times. Geralt’s arms gradually relaxed, and at one point he took a long, shuddering breath and closed his eyes, nodding in response to a question that Clythe had asked him.

Clythe reached across the bed and gave Geralt’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “I think I have him convinced.” He smiled. “Vesemir was his mentor. But...you can speak for yourself, can't you lad?”

“Yes.” Geralt opened his eyes, his expression weary and filled with pain. “I wouldn't have stabbed you, Master.”

“It's all right,” Jaskier told him. “I don't blame you. Clythe has told me what you must have been through at the border patrol’s hands. If I had been in your position, I'd have done anything to escape going back. I'm not going to release your hands yet, though.” The memory of blood spurting from Geralt’s neck was still too fresh. “You and I still need to come to an understanding.”

“That might prove to be a problem. I've got to pee,” Geralt said frankly. “Badly.”

“I can help you with that. It's one of a doctor's duties.”

“On that note, I'll take my leave,” said Clythe. “Unless you need me for something?”

“No. Go. I'm grateful to you for the help. Give my regards to Jenny.”

“That I will.” Jenny was Shane's girl and Clythe's future daughter-in-law. They were planning a spring wedding, and it was still undecided as to whether they would be moving into Iris House or looking for their own place.

After they had left, Jaskier fetched the bottle. He lifted the witcher's thick cock, enjoying the silky feel of it. _Built for pleasure_ , the auctioneer had said. _It's been a long time. Maybe after I free him, he'll renew his offer_.

It was unlikely. _All he wants to do right now is go home. The best I can hope for is that he won’t try to escape again._

Urine splashed into the bottle. It was barely large enough; the man must have been holding it for quite some time. And maintaining muscle control with a slashed throat...

“Thank you, master.” Geralt's eyes closed. Despite his size he looked strangely small and defenseless on the large bed.

“I'm going to have another look at your foot.” Jaskier sat down and did a gentle examination, careful not to press too hard or shift any of the bones. When he had finished, he turned about to find Geralt watching him.

“You're a doctor? That is a person who heals?”

“Yes. I sewed your throat up.”

“Sewed it up? You didn't use a potion?”

“Potion? What kind of potion could close up a spurting artery?”

Geralt's face closed down.

“Okay. Fine. I get it. It's a witcher thing. You don't have to go all defensive on me. I’m not going to push.”

“You're a very strange sort of master.”

“Comes with being a doctor, I suppose.”

“Never met one before.”

“But you must have. You just didn't realize it. Who tends you when you are injured?”

“I'm a slave. We’re expected to take care of ourselves.”

“But...sewing up wounds? Medicines?”

“I can sew myself up if I need to. And why would they waste medicine on a slave?”

“Slaves are valuable.”

“I was never in danger of dying. We heal quickly.”

“That's no reason not to...never mind. I'm going to get you some dinner.”

“You're going to have to free my hand, then,” Geralt pointed out.

“Not necessarily.”

It proved to be a relatively simple, and, Jaskier admitted to himself, pleasurable task to feed bits of chicken and bread into the witcher's mouth. The ale was a little more challenging. At one point, a swallow went down the wrong pipe and Jaskier found himself sprayed with ale.

Terror leaped into the slave’s eyes, an involuntary reaction to past offenses.

Jaskier dabbed himself with a napkin. “I suppose it was no more than I deserve for keeping you tied up like this,” he remarked lightly.

Geralt's shoulders trembled with tension. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling as he struggled to regain control.

“Listen to me. I'm a doctor. If we hurt people it's for their own good. And we always patch them up afterward if we can.” Jaskier placed a hand on Geralt's chest, flesh to flesh, the heat from his open palm radiating into Geralt's sternum. “You don't have to be afraid of me.”

“You say that. But you keep me restrained. Usually when a master does that it means he’s displeased. It means he’s going to…it means punishment.”

“This isn’t punishment. I just don't know what you'll do.”

Geralt’s expression became troubled. “I don’t know what you want of me, Master.”

“Will you promise not to hurt anyone, save in self-defense, if I release you?”

“What good is the word of a slave?”

“We'll find out, won't we? Have I your promise?”

“I suppose.”

“Not anyone. Especially not yourself. I barely saved you the first time, Geralt. I don’t ever want to go through that again.”

Geralt avoided his eyes.

“The word is yes, Geralt. Repeat it if you agree to my terms.”

“Yes.”

“Good. And do you promise not to try and escape?”

“I can't promise that,” Geralt said in a low voice.

 _Am I being a complete bastard for not simply freeing him now and sending him back to his mountains?_ Maybe. But he’d made the others earn their manumissions; making an exception for the witcher would not have been fair, either. “How about if you promise not to try to escape before sunset tomorrow? At that time we can renegotiate.”

Geralt looked at him skeptically. “I can promise that,” he said.

Jaskier unbuckled the restraints. Geralt sat up, gingerly feeling his throat. “I don't understand how that would work,” he said. “I should be bleeding on the inside. I know where the blood runs strong beneath the skin. The big vein in the throat.”

“I sewed that up too.”

Geralt's eyes widened. “That's why you cut my throat?”

“You remember that?”

“I thought…you were helping me to die,” Geralt admitted.

No wonder he was confused. “No. I just needed to expose the artery.”

“I wish I could feel more grateful.” The man's words were beginning to slur.

“You're in pain and probably in shock. Come on, lie down.” Jaskier managed to coax Geralt down onto the bed, covering him with a blanket. “Sleep is the best thing for you.”

He reached his hand out to run his fingers through the witcher's hair. After a time, Geralt closed his eyes and his breathing deepened.

Jaskier went out to find Timothy. “Have a trundle bed brought into the room with the new slave.”

“Yes sir.” Curiosity brightened Timothy's eyes. “Is he going to live?”

“Unless something else goes wrong,” Jaskier told him wryly. _Considering all the other things that have gone wrong, I wouldn't trust fate at this point._

“Shall I be sitting with him, sir? And what do I need to be alert for?”

“No... I'll do it.” Jaskier wasn't sure if he mistrusted the witcher’s promise, or if he just wanted the first thing Geralt saw when he woke to be a friendly face.

It had been disturbing to find out that the witchers were more than simply men with odd colored eyes. They lived much longer than normal men, they had some sort of alchemy which could heal terrible wounds. They weren't just primitive barbarians. There was a war between his people and theirs.

Was Jaskier flirting with treason, harboring a potential enemy and spy? He stripped off his boots and shirt and slid beneath the bed’s single sheet. _I hate this. I hate war and the passions that make men enemies. If I were a god, I'd end it all with a wave of my hand. Make everyone like each other_. He fell, and sleep rushed up to catch him.


	5. Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier have come to a cautious agreement. But then a misunderstanding almost derails the fragile beginnings of trust between them.

Jaskier opened his eyes to the feeling that he was being watched. He turned over, body aching after spending the night on a hard cot, to find the witcher sitting up, staring at him.

Never one to ignore the elephant in the room, Jaskier flipped his brows up. “Decided whether to kill me, yet?”

“Can't,” the witcher grunted. “Promised.”

“Splendid. How about breakfast, then?”

The witcher arose carefully and limped after Jaskier as he led the way to the dining room. It hadn't been Jaskier’s imagination; now that Geralt was no longer dissembling it was evident that his limp was much less pronounced than it had been.

The formal dining hall had a long table, enough to seat twenty men easily. There were three smaller tables, as well as room for several more, should the occasion arise. The house hadn't been filled to capacity since Jaskier's grandfather's time. He'd been an important man in the community, mayor of the town for many years and adviser to his successor until his death fifteen years ago.

Jaskier took a chair and waved Geralt to the one facing him. “As I promised, I'd like to spend some time getting to know you.”

Judging from the expression on Geralt's face, his enthusiasm for the project could have filled a thimble entirely to the brim and had some left over.

Come to think of it, Jaskier couldn't see any good that might come of the conversation. Asking the man about his former masters would probably stir up bad memories, and anything before that time would run the risk of triggering suspicion or involuntary flashbacks to his interrogation at the hands of the Patrol.

Perhaps something that could be disassociated from memories. “What skills do you have that might be useful here on the estate?”

The witcher's expression relaxed. Clearly this was not what he had been expecting. “I’m strong and can work a full day with little rest. I can use a sword. I'm good with horses.”

“Good. That's good.” Bingham, the coachman, was more of an ornament in the position. He did the shopping and was in charge of requisitions, so responsibility for driving the coach had naturally fallen to him, but he knew little about handling animals. “Have you ever driven a coach?”

Geralt shrugged. “Wagons.”

“What else?”

“Sex. I'm good at that.” It was said quite matter-of-factly.

“Your...former masters made use of that talent?” It was dangerous ground, but far less so than pursuing information about his skill with weapons.

“My first master used to grease my cock with an oil that made me stand up for hours and he would ‘mount the flagpole’ while he plowed his lover. They both like to be mounted.”

For a moment, Jaskier could not breathe. That one human being could use another in such a cruel and dehumanizing way…

“My second dressed me up in armor and gave me dulled weapons. I was instructed to look intimidating. He was too afraid of being assassinated to give his guards or slaves edged weapons. He was poisoned in his sleep one night. My third was a woman who used me as amusement in the back rooms for parties. She promised me that she'd free me after a year. That year was up three days ago.”

What have I gotten myself into? Jaskier wondered. The witcher spoke of his experiences without even a flicker of emotion. He's dead inside to people, perhaps even to himself. He has nothing but a survival instinct honed over the years under a thin veneer of periodic terror.

Jaskier felt cold. What if he's too dangerous? What if my only option is to sell him to someone who is capable of taking the proper precautions?

The door to the kitchen opened and Maggie, one of Jaskier's house maids, came out with a large bowl of porridge with currents. “Cook says is this enough with fresh bread, sir?” she asked Jaskier. 

“That's fine.” Jaskier didn't often eat breakfast. A plate of rolls joined the porridge and another of sliced fruits.

Geralt wolfed down most of the porridge, continually glancing at Jaskier, obviously alert for any sign of displeasure.

Jaskier took a small bowl of porridge, two rolls and some fruit. “Eat as much as you like,” he told Geralt. “Anything left over will be thrown to the pigs.”

Ten minutes later he was cursing his lack of caution. Geralt had gone white as a sheet and looked like he was barely managing to keep from heaving up the contents of his overfilled belly.

 _Can go all day on a crust of bread and a cup of mead_ , the auctioneer had bragged. _Jaskier, you idiot. You should have seen this coming_. How long had it been since Geralt's belly was filled?

Jaskier strode into the kitchen and quickly prepared an infusion of ginger root. He brought the steaming mug out to Geralt and said “Drink this.”

Geralt took the cup and stared at it with dread. “Master? I'll throw up.” His shoulders hunched.

“Drink it,” Jaskier ordered.

Geralt drank. After a moment the color started to return to his face.

“Better?”

Geralt nodded cautiously.

“Keep sipping. It will settle your stomach.”

By the time Geralt's cup was empty, Jaskier had finished his breakfast and gone over the accounts from the day before. Part of his morning routine. Sales of irises, two orders for Adrian's shuttered windows, accounts due from the butcher and the clothier. He’d send Beckham in to settle the accounts later in the day; Clythe was fixing a damaged wheel on the carriage that morning.

When Jaskier looked up, Geralt's eyes were upon him, soft with puzzlement. The witcher's gaze quickly dropped.

“It's been awhile since I rode the borders of the estate,” Jaskier told him. “Come with me.”

“Yes, master.” Geralt’s tone was carefully neutral, but at least he had lost the hunted look that he'd worn the night before.

“How does your throat feel?” Jaskier asked as they headed past the shed and toward the barn.

“I heal quickly, Master.”

Quickly was an understatement. For a man who nearly bled out the day before...

He was still anemic looking, though. _What he needs is red meat_ , Jaskier thought. _Beef for dinner tonight, not chicken_. He stopped. “I've got something to attend to,” he told Geralt. “It shouldn't take me more than half an hour. See the barn?”

Geralt nodded politely.

 _Of course he sees the barn_ , Jaskier thought. _It's right there_. “Pick out a couple of horses for us. I assume you can get them geared up.”

“Yes, master.” A note of eagerness altered the man's voice. _Aha_ , Jaskier remembered. _That's right. He did say he knew horses_. This might be an opportunity to draw the witcher out a bit. Jaskier turn and headed back to Iris House in search of the cook.

Three quarters of an hour later, Jaskier strode up to the barn. One horse was saddled and bridled and stood, tied to the hitching post to the left of the barn doors. Pinch-penny, a young bay gelding with a smooth gait and a willing manner. Good choice, Jaskier thought. But there was no sign of Geralt.

Jaskier's heart begin to pound. If the Witcher had run off...if he was taken, riding a stolen horse...

From behind him came the sound of hoofbeats. Jaskier turned.

Legs churning, the gray stallion pounded across the grassy meadow, divots of earth flying. Geralt clung, low to the horse's neck. No saddle, no bridle, just a bit of rope looped about the horse’s lower jaw. It was Demon.

“Fuck!” Jaskier hissed. The last man who had tried to ride the stallion had ended up with a leg broken in two places. He should have warned Geralt not to take the gray.

Jaskier watched helplessly as the horse drove for the fence. It was the same trick he always started with. He crashed or scraped, crushing his rider’s leg against wood or stone.

And then suddenly they were veering. The stallion’s ears were back and he gave an angry crow-kick but obediently he wheeled and raced off in the opposite direction.

Jaskier collapsed against the fence, his hands gripping the rough wood. Gods...they were beautiful together. Demon was purebred Chelation bloodstock, with a pedigree that went back ten traceable generations and a conformation to match, but he'd been wild from birth. He resented being put to the saddle and had proved that he would rather die than submit. He had once reared over backwards on an incline, crushing his rider and nearly breaking his own back.

Geralt had purchased him three years ago from the widow of the man who had sworn he could ‘break the bastard’. He was used for breeding, but never ridden, only exercised on a longe line. Until now.

The stallion wheeled about again, drove for the fence, then veered off in a different direction. By God, Jaskier thought, he's got the bastard doing flying changes. He tried to detect what Geralt was using to control the stallion. Legs. Hands on Demon’s neck. That little slip of rope on his jaw couldn't be doing much, could it?

He'd never seen the animal so...happy. His tail was high, his ears pricked forward eagerly. And Geralt. It almost hurt to look at him. His face was transformed; all focused intent in a wild kind of joy.

And yet...

 _I cannot let this transgression pass_. Geralt would have known he shouldn't take the stallion. Geldings and mares were used for daily riding, not the only stallion in the barn.

 _What the fuck am I going to do?_ He hoped Geralt would not pretend he hadn’t known better.

Blowing and lathered, Demon trotted up to the gate. Geralt leaned down and lifted the latch.

Jaskier waved him into the barn, latching the gate behind him. He waited, sensing that the witcher was too good of a horseman to reappear without at least giving the stallion a quick rub down with a handful of straw.

After five minutes, Geralt re-emerged from the barn. He limped over and dropped to his knees in front of Jaskier.

Jaskier's anger boiled over. “I gave you an order and you chose to leave it half done. Then you went out riding in a meadow. And you've torn your stitches! How many times do I have to sew you up?!” A scarlet trickle slid down to a half moon spreading down Geralt’s shirt. “What the fuck do you expect me to do about this, Geralt?!”

Geralt's head turned up, bewildered. “I've come to you for punishment, Master.”

“Fuck. Of course you have. What am I supposed to do about that? What punishment do you think is appropriate?”

Geralt hesitated. “Twenty, Master.”

“Twenty? Twenty what?”

“With the cat, Master.”

Jaskier's anger exploded all over again. “Are you seriously suggesting I'm going to order you to be whipped with cat-tails? Twenty lashes? You have any idea what that would do to you?!” Twenty lashes with the iron tipped cat-tails would kill many people.

“Yes, master.” Geralt dropped his head, staring down at the dust. A drop of blood fell, and then another.

 _He's serious_ , Jaskier realized. _He knows exactly what it would do_. “How many times have you taken the cats?”

“Seven, Master.” Geralt's voice was matter-of-fact.

“Take off your shirt.”

Geralt removed the shirt he been given that morning. He noticed the blood-stains. “I'm sorry, Master. If you'll let me wash it right away, I know how to get the blood out.”

“To hell with the blood.” On the witcher's back were several smooth areas, where the normal lines of scarring were interrupted. Jaskier laid his hand on one and Geralt flinched at the unexpected touch. “Seven times. You rode that horse, expecting that you were going to be punished? With cat-tails?”

“Yes, master.”

“Fuck. Just...fuck. This isn't working. I can't do this.”

“Master?”

“Go to the house. Go to your room. Stay there until someone comes for you.”

“Master?” A note of real terror rippled through that single word. “Master...I'm sorry...please...”

“Go. Now.”

Jaskier put Pinch-penny back in his box and returned his tack to its place in the back room. Demon was still damp but the foam and sweat had been scraped off. He had hay and water. The stallion laid his ears back and Jaskier narrowly avoided the nasty bite aimed at him.

 _All right, Jaskier, don't make more of this than you need to. He was just showing off._ It was obvious that Geralt knew what he was doing. He's a grown man who understands his own abilities, not a child who needs to be protected. He didn't do anything wrong, other than a little disobedience. And he never denied his wrongdoing.

What was the right thing to do? He was inclined to feel that sitting in uncertainty, thinking he was going to be sold, which is what Geralt was likely doing right now, would be punishment enough. But that wouldn't be something Geralt would recognize as punishment. Not with his history.

 _Thinking he is going to be sold_.

 _Fuck_.

Jaskier headed for the house at a run.


	6. Coming To Terms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier realizes that if he doesn't want to lose Geralt, they have to come to terms with each other.

When Jaskier burst through the door, Geralt was backed into a corner of the room. One of his hands gripped a dagger.

“Put the knife away,” Jaskier said, keeping his voice calm.

Geralt raised the dagger and placed it precisely against the outer edge of his eye. "Please don't come any closer." His voice was emotionless. Detached. He had retreated to a place of numbness. His breathing was deep and even.

Jaskier was quite certain that if anyone but he had come through the door, or maybe Clythe, Geralt would have used the dagger immediately. "I won't." Jaskier closed the door and leaned back against it. He didn't need the support; now that he knew Geralt was alive the immediacy of his panic had passed. But the lean put him off balance and he knew it would cause Geralt's fear response to decrease. The witcher's greatest fear right now would be an ambush that would rob him of his weapon.

"You have to sell me. I understand that. May I make one request, Master? Find me a fresh nightshade root...I know it by smell, so don't try to substitute something else. Let me keep it with me. Then...you can do whatever you want with me."

 _Sell me, make back your gold and I'll kill myself_... "You know I can't do that, Geralt."

"Then...I have no choices."

“Didn't you learn anything the first time?” Jaskier kept his voice even, careful not to step forward or push him into panicking. “This is unnecessary.”

“I've left you no choice.”

“Hardly. I have every choice. I'm not certain,” Jaskier interjected a note of sarcasm into his voice “where you get the idea that you can determine my choices in anything.”

“You can't punish me properly. So you can't keep me. I...” Geralt's voice cracked. “You aren't like the others.”

“That's what I've been trying to tell you,” Jaskier told him gently. “But you’re drawing the wrong conclusions from it.” _So am I. I cannot master this man. Not without resorting to the kind of soul-killing brutality that no decent man could live with._ “You’ve already been punished.”

“I don't understand.”

“I left you here with your worst nightmares. You expected that I would sell you. I let you believe that. It was meant to be a punishment, but I realize it was far too cruel and dangerous. We need to make some adjustments, you and I.”

“That makes no sense. How could that be a punishment?” Geralt lowered the dagger uncertainly.

“It was bad enough that you were willing to die to escape,” Jaskier pointed out.

“Yes, but...” Geralt fingers were white around the handle of the dagger.

"You said you have no choices. Let me give you one. Let's be honest with each other, Geralt. I'm not a typical slave owner. You are not a typical slave. We cannot have a typical relationship. So let me propose a modified one which I hope will settle the worst of your fears. You have my word of honor that I will never sell you."

“I won’t be sold?” Geralt looked like a man who had taken too many shocks in quick succession.

“You have my word. No reservations, Geralt. If you do something so terrible that I cannot live with it, I'll see you dead by my hand. It will be a painless death; I cannot do otherwise. But I will not sell you. For any reason or any price.”

Geralt laid the dagger on the window ledge. His eyes were beginning to glaze over again.

He's still weak from blood loss. The adrenaline rushes, first the riding, then the fear, have taken their toll. Now he's coming down... “Lie down on the bed.”

Geralt obeyed. “May I serve you, master?”

“You will, Geralt. You will serve me very well. Demon will need to be exercised every day. You'll be driving the carriage. And if you are as good with horses as I suspect, I'll be able to expand my stable. We won't have to sell off the yearlings for lack of a proper trainer.”

Geralt blinked, trying not to let the tears gathering in his eyes fall. “I can do that, Master.”

“I paid five hundred crowns for you. Each time we sell a horse that you’ve trained for more than we’d have gotten for a yearling, half that money goes into your account in my ledger. As soon as the balance reaches five hundred, you will be freed. I know...” Jaskier sat down on the bed and tangled his hand in Geralt's hair “you've been lied to before. But you have my permission to ask anyone on the estate whether I am a man of my word in that regard. They all have their own stories. They all started out as slaves on this estate and they are now free men and women.”

Geralt stopped breathing. He threw his arm over his eyes and his body began to vibrate with tightly suppressed sobs.

“I'm sorry,” Jaskier said softly. “I should have told you about this sooner. But I didn't know how you would be able to earn the five hundred crowns. Now I do.” He started to get up off the bed.

Geralt grabbed his arm. His breath hitched. “Please stay, Master. Let me give you pleasure.”

“If you want to seek such pleasure on your own, that is your business, but it will not be with me.”

“You don't find me appealing, then. You prefer women?”

“I find you very appealing. But I don't fuck anybody’s slaves, not even my own. Especially not my own.”

“Why not?” Geralt's tone was puzzled.

“Because a slave doesn't own his own body. His master does. But that ownership was stolen. Nobody chooses to become a slave.”

“You really believe this?” Something had changed in Geralt's gaze. It stabbed keenly into Jaskier's, evaluating, weighing, planning. His head tilted slightly to one side, a mannerism Jaskier had never seen before.

It was as if the witcher's slave visage, the veneer of subservience and fear, had cracked open and Jaskier was finally being treated to a glimpse of the man waiting beneath the slave.

“I do. It is a principle that I have never violated.”

“Hmmm.” There was a peculiar, vibrating thrum to the word. Geralt tucked his arms beneath his head. “You have some fine yearlings,” he said. “The black has the hind quarters to make a jumper. Do your people value that?”

“Not here. But in Vengenberg, the capital, yes. There's a yearly competition and the winner gets a contract to train the king’s jumpers for a year.” Jaskier rose up off the bed and this time Geralt didn't try to stop him. “Are you all right, now?”

“I'm fine. Master. What is to be done about the situation? I'm sorry for putting you in this position. It was just…his spirit was dying, Master. I knew you wouldn’t believe that I could ride him. So I had to show you. Once you finish punishing me, you'll be able to use me to greatest capacity. I knew it would be difficult for me to convince you to let me push my limits.”

Practical, and tragic at the same time. It went far beyond ‘better to ask for forgiveness than permission’. “I told you. You’ve already been punished to my satisfaction. I'll make an effort not to make that mistake again,” Jaskier told him. “I'm going to do my boundaries. I'll see you at dinner.”

“I'm fine, master. I can come with you.”

“You can, but you won't.”

“Yes, Master.” There was a disappointment in Geralt that went deeper than a missed opportunity.

Jaskier gave him a moment to wallow in his misinterpretation. _He thinks I'm being easy on him_. Then he continued. “You said you can't read.”

“Not your language, Master.”

“That needs to change. You will be more useful if you can. I'll have Timothy come and fetch you in ten minutes. You can already speak the language quite well, so you should be able to learn the written version in less than a week. Then I'll have Clythe come by and set you some exercises that I will design to maintain strength in your limbs without straining your throat. Then Bingham will give you driving lessons.”

Geralt blinked in surprise, obviously re-evaluating Jaskier's intentions.

“Will your man feel that I'm stealing his driving duties from him?” Geralt asked bluntly.

“Yes. And he'll thank you for it. Bingham is afraid of horses. As part of your driving lessons Bingham will take you out to familiarize you with the layout of the town and point out the businesses that we patronize.”

“It sounds like I'll have a very busy day, then, Master.”

Master. It was as if the word had just become a title, stripped of its sting. There was an ease to it, no longer something used as a shield.

“Oh, I'm not finished yet. Bingham will be evaluating your skills with mathematics. If he isn't available, you'll have to do the shopping and you'll need to know if you are being cheated.”

“I won't be,” Geralt said with a tiny flash of arrogance in his voice. “Vesemir always said I was a demon at bargaining.” Then his eyes quickly shuttered.

“You don’t have to be afraid to mention his name to me. Geralt, I will not ask you to bring out any of your people's skills for my benefit. I understand that you need to keep your two worlds separate. I'll accept and be grateful for whatever you choose to give but know that I understand.”

Geralt's face relaxed. For a moment, he looked utterly lost. As if all his moorings had been cut free and he now floated, spun sideways by the wind, on a glassy sea.

 _He's always had resistance. Something to fight against, to keep him strong. Now I've taken that away from him_. “At dinner, then. Be prepared to give me a report of what you've learned. Until you're a freeman, when your time will be your own, I'll expect a nightly report.”

“Yes, master.” Geralt swallowed and Jaskier could see that the act caused him pain. His people might heal fast, but they suffered the pain of their injuries as much as anyone. The dose of Valerian that he'd been given that morning must have worn off. Oriana could get another dose down him before his lettering lesson. That would make things interesting. Stubborn barbarian bastard wouldn’t ask for it, count on that. He had a lot common with Clythe, come to think of it.

The thought left Jaskier feeling a great deal more cheerful as he headed off to the barn. 


	7. For Want Of A Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years after the events of chapter 6...
> 
> Geralt has been running Jaskier's stables for nearly two years now. Word is starting to get out. But with such success comes a whole new set of dangers. As Geralt's value increases, so do the eyes upon him.

Two years later…

Lord Isikiel Sheltingham trotted the chestnut filly back into the exercise yard. Patina was a three-year-old daughter of Demon out of a placid mare that Jaskier had purchased for three crowns at an auction. Her father's breeding was dominant in her conformation; she was long legged and sleek, but it was her mother's temperament that made her excellent under saddle.

"What did you think, Milord?" Jaskier asked.

The man patted the filly’s neck, dismounted and handed the reins to Geralt, who took her off to one side and began picking her hooves.

"I'll take her. She's just what I was looking for."

"I am honored by your patronage, Milord." Jaskier had been shocked to receive notice that a man of Sheltingham's stature was coming by to 'look at his stock'. Politically and financially, Sheltingham dwarfed him. His stable was reputed to be top-notch. Sheltingham had been properly appreciative of Demon when Geralt took him through his paces, then rejected several of the flashier colts and fillies to settle on Patina. "Shall we retire to Iris House to work out the details? Or...perhaps you can simply send your man by to sign the papers?" Men of Sheltingham's station didn't fraternize with the likes of simple country squires like Jaskier.

Sheltingham made no move to leave. "Exceptional filly. Responsive but well behaved. And you say this is your trainer?" The man's eyes raked over Geralt, taking in first the slave brand on the shoulder, then the well-developed muscles of Geralt's back and buttocks, slender waist, the large hands cradling the filly's hoof, the long white hair hanging down about Geralt's face.

The man's breathing became more rapid. "I've heard of him. They say you got him at the auction for five hundred. Quite a stroke of luck, hmm? I spoke with one of his former mistresses. He was quite...well remembered."

"No doubt." Jaskier didn't like the way the man was looking at Geralt. It raised his hackles. He called out "Shane! Help Lord Sheltingham get Patina ready to be transported to her new home, will you?"

"Yes sir."

"Wait. One more item of business." Lord Sheltingham dragged a large purse out of an inner pocket. "I want him for my stable. Ten thousand crowns. Quite a large profit on your investment, eh, Lord Pankratz?" He beamed at Jaskier.

Jaskier was stunned. Ten thousand crowns. He had never even heard of a slave being sold for that amount of money. "I...I'm overwhelmed by your offer," he said with complete honesty. Then anger rose up inside him. It was obvious now what was going on. The reason for Lord Sheltingham’s visit hadn't been entirely honest. He had come here today for Geralt, the filly was just an excuse.

_He can't have either of them._

_Don't be a fool. This man can break you._ Jaskier pushed his anger aside. No, the man's enjoyment of Patina's gentle obedience hadn't been faked. He said in a low, calm voice. "Lord Sheltingham, while I am extraordinarily flattered by your offer, I can't possibly part with him. For any price."

"Ah." Lord Sheltingham pursed his lips thoughtfully. His grey eyes dissected Jaskier, head tilting to one side. "So that is how the wind blows. I suppose I can't blame you. If that changes, consider yourself to have an open invitation to come by Ambervale, or whatever estate I am at residence in to discuss possibilities."

Jaskier forced himself to smile. "Of course, Milord. If I decide to sell, I'll give you first option." _It'll be a cold day in hell_...

"That is a very generous promise, Lord Jaskier. You have my favor." Lord Sheltingham performed a formal bow. "If you do not mind, I should like it repeated before a witness. In the event that something unfortunate were to occur."

 _Fuck_. He hadn't meant that as more than a sop to the man's pride. _Fuck_. But he couldn't back out now without giving offense. "If...if you like, m'lord." He called Shane over, and Clythe, noticing Jaskier's tense tones, came as well. As freemen, they could both give legal witness to the promise that if Jaskier decided to sell Geralt, Lord Sheltingham would be given the opportunity to purchase at that price. Shane looked faintly puzzled, and Clythe's manner was covertly reproachful.

Patina was mounted by one of Lord Sheltingham's retainers, and the carriage and its outriders rolled away down the road leading back to town.

"What was that about?" Clythe asked.

"He offered me ten thousand."

Clythe whistled. Shane looked impressed.

"You're not taking it." It wasn't a question.

"Of course not."

Clythe folded his arms, considering. Then he broke out in a grin. "You can make this work for you, lad."

"You think so?" Jaskier looked at him doubtfully.

"This won't be the last offer you have for him. All you have to do is say that Lord Sheltingham has first option, at ten thousand. That'll send them away, wobble-kneed, won't it?"

A reluctant smile curved Jaskier's lips. "I guess you're right."

Clythe snorted, shaking his head. "I'd suggest you go fetch the lad," he said, "before he deforests your property."

It was a secret shared between Jaskier and Clythe that when Geralt was troubled or angry, he chopped wood. Jaskier headed off to find the witcher.

He was behind the barn, splitting the rounds that Clythe and Shane had brought in several days ago, after a large tree had fallen onto the fence of the High Pasture. The pile of split logs beside the block was already knee high. Geralt's mouth was set in a determined line. The muscles of his arms bulged as he swung the hammer, driving the maul deep into the green wood.

Jaskier crossed his arms and watched as a layer of sweat accumulated on Geralt's body. "We don't need any more firewood," he remarked. The woodshed was full and there was already a sizeable overflow pile.

"Needs to be done."

Jaskier didn't like to interfere with Geralt's private emotional outlet, so he let the subject drop and went to clean out Patina's box. She had been a tiny thing when she was born, with a curly tail that never stopped flipping about. His fingers brushed over the now too-small halter that lay beneath her adult tack. She was one of the sweetest foals he'd ever raised.

 _Please don't let him take out his sexual disappointment on the filly_...

If he had known...

But what could he have done? Refused to sell Lord Sheltingham a horse? The obvious snub of a man who had the King's ear was political suicide, at the very least. Not that he had any interest in politics, but powerful men made powerful enemies.

When he was done, he headed back to the house. It was after dark when Geralt returned. Dinner had been cleared, but Oriana had been waiting to ambush him with a meat pie, which he wolfed down as he climbed the stairs.

Jaskier followed him, catching the witcher just as he was reaching for the latch on his bedroom door. He spun Geralt around and slammed his shoulders against the door. "What the hell kind of man do you think I am, Geralt?! Is that how little you think of me?"

"What? I don't..."

"Even if I hadn't given you my word of honor that I would never sell you, I promised you your freedom eventually. You made me for a liar. You were worried I was going to sell you."

Geralt blanched. "I didn't..."

"You did. You think I don't know you by now, Geralt? Look at your hands."

The man raised his hands; there were blisters forming on his palms. His shoulders slumped against the push of Jaskier's grip. "You're right. Master. I'm sorry."

"You should be." Jaskier's fingers dug into the flesh of Geralt's upper arms.

"Ten thousand crowns. You could have bought twenty of me for that price."

"That remark doesn't even deserve a rebuttal, and I'm not going to feed your ego by telling you that there isn't even one of you to be had for that price. If there were, he wouldn't have been making the offer."

"Do you suppose he was serious?"

"Serious? Of course he was fucking serious. He wants you for his horses and he wants you for...well, that short tunic he was wearing was hiding no secrets. Enough of this...if I hear one more fucking word about his offer I'll put you back in leg irons and chain you to your bed at night." Jaskier released Geralt and stepped back. "Go to bed."

Geralt's gaze intensified. "Still don't care to join me? I hear my services fetch a very high price."

Jaskier glared. "Leg irons for you, then..." he growled.

Geralt's lips twitched, and he turned and did as his master had bid him.

"Where's Geralt?" It had been several weeks since word had gotten around. The patronage of a man like Sheltingham had spread his name, and Geralt’s, as far as Vizima and the capital city of Ard Carraigh. He had sold two of the colts that Geralt had started under saddle, for five times what they would have fetched as yearlings. He’d also a dozen offers for Geralt already, though none that could top Sheltingham’s. It made Jaskier a little uneasy. He’d refused to give the man what he’d really wanted, but there was no sign of retaliation.

Clythe straightened. "Don't know. Haven't seen him all morning, not since he finished the morning chores. He told Shane he'd be out and about for a bit."

"Who did he take?" Not Demon...the stallion was restless, kicking at his box.

"I didn't see. Shane?"

Shane glanced up from what he was doing. A frown compressed his features.

"Shane?" Jaskier waited for the man's answer. "Where's Geralt?"

"A man came for him. One of Sheltingham's, I think. Leading a horse for Geralt to ride. Bit of a firecracker. They went off the property."

"How long ago?"

"An hour."

 _Fuck_. "Did he look...distressed?"

"Not really. Puzzled. I don't think he knew what it was about and I wasn't close enough to hear them talking."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Not my place. Unless you tell me it is. Should I be keeping an eye on him?"

 _Do you trust him?_ Shane was asking. Jaskier knew that there was some resentment there. It was because of the witchers that Shane's father had been sold, and Shane as well. There had always been a slightly suspicious edge to Shane's treatment of Geralt. "No. You're right. Sorry. If he'd been taken against his will, that would have been different."

Clythe put his hand on Jaskier's shoulder. "He can take care of himself, lad. Are ye okay with letting him leave?" Clythe had seen Sheltingham's interest, and witnessed the man's desire to purchase Geralt.

Jaskier knew what Clythe was asking. "He has my permission."

"Good. Sheltingham will send him back. The man's no thief."

Jaskier nodded. He'd asked for Geralt's trust. Geralt deserved his in return. He headed back to the house.

They returned several hours later. Geralt dismounted. Sheltingham's man gathered up the reins, wheeled his horse and trotted away. Geralt headed for the barn.

When Jaskier arrived, he found Geralt in the box with Demon, who was head-butting him impatiently. "Geralt."

The witcher raised his head, his face expressionless. "Master?"

"Was it consensual?"

Geralt's lips twitched. "Hmmm," he said.

Jaskier relaxed, pushing aside a stab of jealousy, that Sheltingham would have something which he denied himself. _He offered. You refused. Don't be a dog-in-the-manger, Jaskier._ "Good. If that changes...if he tries to blackmail or compel you or use you for something..."

Geralt shook his head. "I don't think he wants anything that complicated. Not from me, anyway."

"If that changes, I want to know. Immediately."

"Yes, Master." Geralt's gaze searched his face.

"I gave you permission, Geralt. It isn't much different from the arrangement that I had with Clythe, before he reached his ledger balance. He'd sometimes do outside work for pocket money."

"He didn't pay me. Not…money." Geralt's eyes dropped. He scratched Demon behind the ears and the stallion leaned into him.

An exchange of services, maybe? _Not my business_. "I'm going to be riding out in an hour. Wind was blowing pretty hard last night, I want to see if there are any windfalls that need to be cleaned up."

"I'll be ready. Lindebrau needs some experience under saddle. And shall I saddle Bittersweet for you?"

"Do that." Jaskier headed off to the house to change into his riding clothes.

It became a routine, after a while. Sheltingham would send a man around, with an extra horse for Geralt to ride. If Geralt was available he would ride off for a few hours.

Jaskier didn’t ask him about his time with Sheltingham, and Geralt didn’t volunteer information, other than to tell Jaskier once that if his going bothered Jaskier he would stop immediately.

Then one day, Geralt came back riding a shaggy chestnut mare who stared wide-eyed about her in the exercise yard and followed Geralt like a puppy after he had dismounted. “Roach,” he explained.

“That’s her name?” Jaskier was puzzled. “Where did she come from?” She didn’t look like any of the sleek racers or jumpers that Sheltingham kept in his barn.

“She’s mine.” Geralt’s voice was thick. “From before.”

“She’s…the horse that was stolen from you?” When you were ambushed and enslaved… “Sheltingham found her for you.”

“She and I had never been apart before. I always worried. Sheltingham asked what I wanted. I told him I wanted to know what had happened to her. He gave me more than I asked. Much more.” Geralt turned to Roach and opened the saddlebag attached to the horse’s saddle. Inside was a man’s hand.

The penalty for theft. Jaskier felt nauseous.

Roach nickered and shoved at Geralt’s arm.

“Well…” Jaskier gave him a wan smile. “I’m happy that the two of you found each other again. The box next to Demon is available. Do you think they’ll get along?”

“Probably not. She’s as ill tempered as he is.” Geralt tugged at the horse’s forelock. “But she’ll settle.”

In the end, we always do, thought Jaskier. The only question is what we are willing to settle for. And how long we are willing to wait for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally planned on seven chapters to the story. Much of what is in this chapter was originally a single paragraph flashback at the end of the story, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was a story that deserved to be told, not just remembered.
> 
> I also found myself more than a little intrigued by Sheltingham. He was originally the nameless lord who offered ten thousand for Geralt and precipitated an emotional crisis. I was expecting him to play the villain, but when Jaskier refused to sell, he didn't behave as I expected. And then things kept going and I realized there was more to the man than I had planned. I'll be interested to find out if he intrigues my readers as well.


	8. Going Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been three years since Geralt and Jaskier made their peace. But their relationship is about to change.

One year later…

Screaming spectators lined the stands. The King’s Cup was the royal crown of horse racing in Kaedwen, held every year in the capital city of Ard Carraigh. Some three thousand people, including the King, watched a field of sixteen two-year-olds pounding around the final stretch. Jaskier and Geralt watched, Geralt white knuckled as Demoncatcher edged his way between the field leaders. One of them stumbled and went down, and the crowd groaned.

The rest passed swiftly between the finish posts, with Demoncatcher ahead by two lengths. Shane gave a scream of triumph; he had wagered his nest egg at five-to-one odds on the colt that Geralt had trained. He pounded Geralt on the back and then turned about to kiss his pregnant wife soundly. Shane now had enough to purchase a place of his own. Jaskier would miss them, but he had to admit he’d be glad he wouldn’t have to share the Hall with a squalling newborn.

Geralt headed down the stairs and hopped the barrier to take charge of the colt and congratulate their jockey. Drew, the tiny man who had ridden two horses to victory in King’s Cups past, was on loan from Lord Sheltingham.

Jaskier hadn’t asked the details. He watched Geralt conversing with Drew, dread in his heart. It wasn’t fair that he should wish his own entry to fail, but he had.

 _You are a selfish man, Jaskier_.

He waited until most of the crowds had exited the stands before standing up.

“Good race. But then, it always is.”

Jaskier turned.

Lord Sheltingham stood watching him, wearing the slightly amused mask that was his trademark in court.

“Thank you for the loan of your man, Milord.” Jaskier gave him a respectful bow.

“No thanks necessary. Your horse has made me a great deal of money. Not to mention giving Drew a third King’s Crown. Will you be staying for the entire week?”

The King’s Cup was held in the middle of the week-long late-summer Festival of the Moon, which featured quite an impressive array of night-time activities.

“Regretfully, no, Milord. I left my blacksmith and my valet in charge of the stables. It was not an ideal situation.”

“I could send a couple of men over to take charge,” Sheltingham offered carelessly. He had three dozen men running his stable in Bileth, according to Geralt.

“I would not impose on you, Milord,” Jaskier said firmly.

“Pity,” Sheltingham murmured, and took his leave, retainers in his wake.

Ordinarily Jaskier loved the Festival of the Moon. Well, any festival, really. At one time he had considered running away from home to be a bard. He loved the music, the idea of roaming the country, carelessly without responsibility, carrying news and lifting the spirits of those who he met. When we get home, I’m going to pull the old lute out of my closet and start rebuilding my calluses.

Or not.

People depend on me. Clythe is getting older every year, Shane was moving out, Geralt…

Geralt.

Time to go home, he thought. Oriana will be waiting for us. She had been planning their victory feast for weeks.

Victory or consolation.

He wondered which one it would be.

Late the next day, Jaskier, Geralt, Shane and Jenny arrived at Iris House. Jaskier let Geralt hurry off to the stable to see what disasters awaited, and he went upstairs to work on the books.

Two hundred fifty-five crowns for Geralt’s share of sales for the last three years plus half of six hundred minus the expense of entry, the race and travel and...

Five hundred and two crowns were credited to Geralt’s account.

Two crowns.

It would be so easy to...

Jaskier closed the book. He tucked it under his arm and carried it downstairs to dinner.

Dinner was a feast. Tender veal simmered for two days. Celebration or consolation, sir, was what Oriana had said. Greens tossed with nuts and dressing, vegetables in a smooth white sauce, candied carrots, fruits smothered in berry yogurt, and, of course, plenty of fresh pastries.

Just before dessert, Jaskier held his hands up for silence in the rooms. The room fell quiet. Clythe and Shane and Jenny, Geralt, the housemaids Maggie, Verena and Wren, Oriana, Adrian and his lover, Timothy, Bingham...

“Everyone raise a glass in toast to Demoncatcher,” he announced. The ring of crystal echoed through the room. “His father should be proud.”

“More likely to take a chunk out of his ass,” Geralt muttered. “I think we need to clear the far side of the lake for a new pasture. Not that they wouldn't swim to get at each other.” He chuckled and shook his head.

There was little resembling the terrified and hopeless slave to be found in the powerful man that ran Jaskier's stable with an expert hand. Demon still tried to bite on occasion, just for show. His eyes followed Geralt everywhere when he was out to pasture. He and Roach vied jealously for Geralt’s attentions.

They'd already had buyers from Temeria and Kaedwen for three of the two year olds that Geralt had trained. One lord had offered him four thousand crowns for Geralt. Jaskier had given him a polite refusal.

“I’ve got an announcement, too,” Shane told them. “Thanks to Demonchaser, Jenny and I have enough for the Lovener Cottage. It’s only half an hour walk from here, so it won’t interfere with my work at the forge.”

Clythe hugged his son, tears glistening in his eyes.

“I have one more announcement,” Jaskier told them. The noise died down. “Geralt's earning have risen to five hundred and two. That means tomorrow there will be a trip to the town records office, and Geralt will be officially a freeman.”

Congratulations exploded in the room. Clythe beat on Geralt's back so hard Jaskier feared ribs would be broken. All the women took the opportunity to kiss him soundly.

 _What do I do?_ Jaskier wondered. He didn't want Geralt to see how he ached inside. He pasted a brilliant smile on his face, shook Geralt's hand and left the book on the table, in case Geralt wanted to go over it.

He went to bed early.

In the morning he went with Geralt into town. They tried to argue him out of it, of course. Demon-eyes, he was called in town. They were afraid of him, no doubt thinking the bonds of slavery were all that prevented him from rising up and murdering everyone in their beds.

Idiots, Jaskier thought.

He signed the papers. The mark of manumission was burnt across the slave brand behind Geralt's right shoulder. He refused numbing cream and Jaskier was the only one who flinched when the iron pressed, sizzling, against Geralt’s flesh.

Geralt insisted on driving them back to the estate.

“Wait until the morning to leave,” Jaskier told him. “You'll take the carriage. Bingham will drive it back.”

“No,” said Geralt. “I've waited three years. I'm not prepared to wait any longer.”

“I'm not changing my mind. Leave now, leave tomorrow. Your choice. But you'll not walk to the border.” Dozens of miles, in enemy territory. If Geralt wanted to go home, he wouldn't go alone.

“Very well.” A far-away look came into Geralt’s eyes. “I'll be packed in half an hour.”

Clythe and Shane came to see him off. Bingham looked miserable. Jaskier wasn't sure if that was because of the long journey ahead or because he'd have to go back to driving himself.

Oriana gave them a wicker basket that she’d packed in a hurry.

Jaskier shook his hand. Then he took two crowns from his pocket. “These are yours.” He pressed them into Geralt's hand. “To remember us by.” He had already packed the space inside the carriage seats with the sort of gear a man might need, up in the mountains, with instructions to Bingham to make sure Geralt took it with him.

Geralt nodded. He seemed almost absent, his mind no doubt climbing the mountains already. He stepped up onto the carriage. Bingham slipped inside.

A slap of the reins, and they were gone.

Jaskier went back inside the house.

He spent several hours in his study getting shit-faced drunk.

_We’ll have to go back to selling the yearlings. I won't have them man-handled by some idiot. Including myself._

But this year's earnings would pay for a new barn and his brood mares had doubled. Income from the stable now surpassed flower sales.

He stumbled to his room, pushed open the door and reached for the box of matches to light his lamps.

A large hand grabbed him and slammed him against the wall. He could feel Geralt’s body pressed up against his, the smell of him, the taste of him as Geralt's mouth came down on his.

This was no slave. This was a hard man, a dangerous man. His hands closed around Jaskier's throat. He could have snapped Jaskier's neck with hardly any effort. His mouth came down on Jaskier's again and his tongue forced Jaskier's lips open.

Jaskier felt his knees grow weak. Only the pressure from Geralt's body kept him upright.

Geralt's tongue, teasing his teeth apart, the hardness of Geralt’s arousal pressing into him, Geralt’s hands on his body, unbuttoning his shirt, slipping underneath, roaming over his ribs.

“Bingham took me shopping. Shall I show you what I bought?”

“If you like,” Jaskier said breathlessly.

“I've been waiting three years for this, you fucking, noble idiot.” Geralt pulled Jaskier’s shirt down to his waist and propelled him backward toward the bed. “By the way, I want a percentage, not a salary.”

“What?” Jaskier felt dazed and light-headed. He recognized the words Geralt was speaking but his brain couldn’t quite make sense of them.

Geralt tossed Jaskier's shirt away and untied the cords around his hips. His trousers slipped to the floor. “The stable. I want a percentage. Twenty percent.”

“That's...pretty big...a big percentage,” Jaskier said breathlessly. He couldn't quite catch his breath. Built for pleasure, he thought as he slid Geralt's trousers down over the man’s narrow hips.

“Well then...” Geralt pushed him down on the bed. “Let's negotiate.”

In the end both men got exactly what they wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a fun story to write. I'm going to concentrate on finishing my other series, When Wolves Fall and some other projects, and then I'll probably start work on the sequel to Wolf In Chains. I've already got some great ideas.
> 
> I will also publish a supplement, if people are interested. Because I like to have a good idea of what is going on behind the scenes, I wrote all the cut scenes. Basically what was going on when Geralt disappeared off to Sheltingham's estate, and a few other scenes. If people are interested I'll put them in a story and publish them.


End file.
